


the doubts that plague you

by exhaustedwerewolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cyborg Angst, Flashbacks, Healing, I'm blowing it out of proportion it's quite lightweight I just don't want to trigger anyone, Implies not just Hanzo was involved in the honour killing, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, One-Shot, Post-Blackwatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Recall, Reliving traumatic events, Suicidal Thoughts, he is in a Bad Place, probably not uprising compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exhaustedwerewolf/pseuds/exhaustedwerewolf
Summary: In the small hours of the morning, when Genji feels like he's a stranger not just in his own body but to his own mind, discord can be hard to shake. Having someone by his side makes it a little easier.





	the doubts that plague you

When they bring out the first blade, Genji will later muse, is when he forgets who he is. When they take it from him.

He is already losing his mind.

He's thinking one moment that he's going to throw up, the next that he's going to pass out, can hardly differentiate in the dizziness. He's thinking nothing at all, and everything at once. His insides are aflame, blazing with raging dragonfire, embers and flame flicker across his vision, hazy with heat.

They're holding him down- he was outraged when it started, scandalised; how dare they, him, the heir of the Shimada clan- but discomfort turned to pain turned to agony and now he's writhing and wrenching, scrambling like a trapped animal, some voice is screaming just behind the surface of his thoughts, and it hurts, and they won't let go, everything hurts, and _this will never be over-_

And then there it is, between a well placed kick and the sharp, torn gasp that follows it. He sees it only for a fraction of a second. But it's a frozen frame, clear as day in the artificial whiteness of the modern streetlights, not glinting or gleaming, just held there, unsheathed, and he's falling-

-leaping hand-in-hand with Hanzo from the cliff side as the sparkling water rushes to embrace them, and there's the calling of the gulls, and he is spinning with the thrill of it all, and how did he ever convince Hanzo to do this-

-and the sickening impact is coming, and the air rushes past, ripped from his lungs, and he-

Genji Shimada is babbling, begging, bargaining and thrashing in their grasps. When he reminisces, revisits, relives, he imagines;

"Stop, -hurts-, please, I'm sorry, I won't- again- I'm sorry- whatever you say, please, don't-, I don't want to die-"

But he could be saying anything, he's desperate, he's out of his mind. The words stream uselessly as bubbles from his mouth. He's drowning, suffocating, and they're above the surface; their faces swim, and they will not hear him.

The sharp edge is shockingly cool against his cheek; he sucks in air, the blade bites, and then there's the alien stinging heat of it as it's drawn slowly across his skin-

"My student, it is late. What brings you here?"

And he's back- mostly, breathing the smokiness of the incense and the nothingness of the night air. He's been staring blindly at the dark shapes of the mountains, illuminated by a soft yellow glow that could be the moon, or the approaching dawn.

The monastery is quiet.

"Genji," Zenyatta speaks gently, as if to a flighty animal, and Genji tries not to hate him for it, "what is it that you are thinking?"

He's mostly back, can feel the firmness of the ancient stone slabs under him, but there's still the thick taste of salt and skin and iron as he screams and begs against someone's fingers, there's still the press of the paving and then of the operating table against him. A glimpse of his brother, turning away-

"Truly," The inhuman distortion in his voice is foreign and wrong to his own ears, human skin brushing against metal. "I could not say, Master, even if I wanted to." The pain in his throat, in his chest, is unbearable, ragged raw, as if someone's taken a knife to his insides. Zenyatta must know he is crying, mask or no, but he is ignoring it, and Genji is dully aware of an exhausted kind of relief for that at least.

"What is it that you want?" The omnic is probably asking if he'd rather be left alone, but that's not where his thoughts go.

Genji thinks instead of what must be the sound of bone breaking, and the voices that were muffled before, sudden, roaring all at once;

"A disgrace to the Clan-"

"-a true Shimada would never-"

"-brought this on himself-"

"-just punishment-"

"-deserves every second of it."

He's thinking of the searing sensation of the knife against his face. He's thinking of the pressure of the blade under his skin. He's thinking of faces warped with disgust, the scarlet spray of his blood on the tarmac.

And somehow, to bleed out on the streets of Hanamura, _their way_ , is he all wants right now.

He'd rather die than admit it. (He'd rather die than do a lot of things, these days.) So instead, he makes a non-commital noise, like a stalling machine, and tries to breathe more easily. The stars stare down on them passively. And Zenyatta says;

“I am sorry.”

The light is the moon then, he sees it in the corner of his vision, cresting the horizon just as he turns, replying too sharply;

“What?”

“I am sorry,” Zenyatta repeats, steadily. “I am sorry that this has happened to you. You did not deserve it.” He moves closer, out of the shadow into the yellow moonlight, waits patiently.

And Genji can't reply, because his throat is closing again and he's choking back tears, because honour killings are only for the dishonourable, and because he's never been enough and he knows it, because he's lucky to be alive and he can't even appreciate that-

“Master,” the word comes out strangled, and Zenyatta’s hands are resting on his shoulders, lightly, easily enough for Genji to push him away if he chose, but Zenyatta is there. “I-I’m-,” fierce pain in his chest, his head, every limb and every muscle. “I’m-,”

“Shhh.” Zen's voice is a low hum, and gently, he pulls Genji closer, lets him lean rest awkwardly his chest.

"It is hopeless." Genji whispers, screwing shut his eyes. "Trying... I only prolong the inevitable. It hurts, master. I am so tired. Why do I go on?"

Zenyatta does not reply immediately, and regret blooms in Genji's heart- finally, he's asked the question for which his master has no answer, and it is all he wants to know. But then Zenyatta pulls back, looking at his student; really looking at him, intent and unwavering, and brings a hand up to his face tenderly, seemingly indifferent to the mask.

"The outcome is not preordained." Harmony- for a moment Genji can almost understand, feel it in his veins; serene, warm golden light. "Promise me you will not forget that, my student."

"The outcome is not preordained," Genji repeats, finding that his voice feels a little more human this time. He takes Zenyatta's hands in his. "I promise to try."

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, check my account for "pieces of peace in sun's peace of mind" if you'd like something slightly more cheerful! Thank you for reading.


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